


You're Fire, Taking Me Higher

by touchmymachete



Category: Mötley Crüe, The Dirt (2019)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Finger guns, M/M, Sexual Tension, tags will update as i go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-09-30 23:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20455448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchmymachete/pseuds/touchmymachete
Summary: "Alright," he laughs."Alright," Nikki echoes, closing his eyes to gather his bearings. Tommy mentions something about catching a smoke outside, and it's not until he's gone from the bathroom that Nikki groans in despair, throwing his head back and knocking it a little too hard against the wall. Goddammit.///Assorted Tommy/Nik centric oneshots, compiled into one on-going fic for convenience.





	1. Piece of Your Action

**Author's Note:**

> Someone brought up the idea that I could use prompts for each definitive story I write, and it seemed like a lot of fun! So I spun the wheel and landed on "Does it feel good?", and I'm always looking for excuses to write smut so like lmao- (also, I keep thinking of the peanut butter baby when I read that sentence and I am not okay)
> 
> Not all of these will be saucy but I'd like a handful of them to be, because I'm nasty like that. :) Each installment won't be connected to the any of the others already written; I like to toss scenarios around and have fun and multi-chaptering is _hard_, man!
> 
> Anyway, enough of my rambling. Enjoy!

. . . "Does it feel good?" Tommy asks, _pants_, with his hands on Nikki's hips and his thigh between Nikki's legs.

His words, though having the potential to come across as something lewd and sexy and utterly _debauched_ are nothing more than approval-seeking; hopeful and curious and-- shit, he really _is _curious, isn't he? Just a kid, barely skirting the edges of his twentieth birthday and still learning the ropes when it came to handling another person's body carnally. _Intimately_.

Nikki isn't sure how it happened, only bits and pieces of the events leading up to right now floating around in his subconscious like debris in the water. One moment they're celebrating another successful gig, the next they're having subtle conversation over joints and whiskey on the rocks, and then the rest blurs together after that; context after context chewed up and spat out until the scene is reconstructed into _this_, him being held against the dingy bathroom wall while his drummer -- _his best friend_ \-- paws and gropes at him like he hasn't seen any action in months.

"Yeah," Nikki breathes back, right into the crook of Tommy's neck. He churns his hips hard and delights in the way Tommy's breath stutters at that, his grip on Nikki's waist tightening and enthusiastically helping the motion along.

He wasn't sure why. He wasn't sure how. He wasn't even sure who_ initiated_ it, yet here he was; crowded inside of their filthy 'communal' restroom at another after party, riding Tommy Lee's thigh like it was fucking planned. "Faster?" Tommy whispers against the crown of his head, and he nods feverishly.

It feels too awkward to dirty talk, let alone even _speak_; but Tommy doesn't seem to mind the silence and Nikki would sooner die than start moaning his band mate's name in the toilet where, he was sure, _everyone_ was within ear shot. Everyone probably already _knew_. Shit, where was Vince at? Wasn't fucking in the bathroom _his _thing? He could bust in at any moment, it's not like the door had a lock on it--

And if Nikki wanted to, _he_ could have controlled the tempo. He didn't _need_ Tommy's hands guiding him down to grind into his thigh like some kind of seasoned leg-humping instructor. He could have easily found the right angle for himself and kept at it, thrusting quick and hard until he finished off within a minute or two and then he could have left the room, turning in for the night and never looking Tommy in the eye again. It would be so, so easy and yet...

He _doesn't _want to.

Because the way Tommy holds him is fascinating. The way he experiments with each movement, so _careful and calculated_ like he's absorbing every little movement that makes Nikki squirm is captivating, and the bassist finds himself enjoying being the center of such complicated, intricate affections.

They're both drunk, he concludes. They won't remember a thing come the next morning, so he's _allowed_ to enjoy this.

"I'm-- I'm getting close," Nikki slurs after a little while, knots twisting low in his gut. He reaches for his belt but Tommy knocks his hands away and goes back to snapping his hips against his thigh in sharp, quick little motions; prompting him to shudder and tense. He feels the first pulse of an impending orgasm race through him, and attempts untying his leathers again.

"No," Tommy says curtly. He grabs Nikki's wrists, and the shorter man panics.

"Tommy, stop. T-Tommy, shit, I'm gonna - _fuck_ \- I'm gonna ruin my pants if you don't--"

"Ruin 'em, Nikki, c'mon. C'mon man, get there for me. I wanna see you get there," Tommy pleads, as curious as fucking ever and Nikki doesn't know whether to comply or rear back and punch him for using him as some kind of guinea pig for his own estranged sexual awakening--

But then Tommy's crowding closer, dropping his thigh in favor of pressing their groins together instead and suddenly he's finding that frantic rhythm again, grinding and rolling into Nikki with enough strength to bruise and the knots tie even _tighter than before--_

"C'mon, c'mon, _c'mon--_"

Tommy's lips make contact with the sensitive skin right below Nikki's ear, teeth grazing as he sucks a heavy bruise into the unmarred flesh _and just like that_ it's over in milliseconds. The ball of knots unravels and Nikki's back is arching off of the wall without warning, a slew of curses hissing through his clenched teeth as he reaches his peak and comes in his pants before he even has the chance to drag the hem just below dick level. He shakes through the high and Tommy holds him close while he does, a rigid hardness rubbing incessantly against Nikki's hip as words of encouragement spill from his lips and seep into Aqua Net-tangled hair.

The weight of the situation falls over Nikki like a bucket of ice water when he finally regains his senses, but Tommy remains blissfully unaware of it. He's still rutting against him, _he can feel it_, and when the younger musician stoops down again, perhaps to try and suck another mark into his neck, Nikki reaches up and seizes his arms with jittery fingers.

"Tom-- Tommy," he stammers. Tommy halts in his advances, just as curious as he's been from the start. Tongue-tied, Nikki mulls over his next words. What the fuck was he supposed to say?

"Mm?"

Nikki looks up through his veil of dark bangs then, meeting Tommy's inquisitive eyes. He's flushed like he's been laying in the sun all day, the apples of his cheeks bleeding a pretty pink all the way down into his neck and disappearing beneath his fishnets and the collar of his jacket. A quick glance down confirms that he's still very much into the idea of finishing what either one of them had started, but Nikki could feel his anxiety bubbling just below the surface; threatening to boil over any second and send him running straight for the hills.

Tommy moves his hips a little, maybe just to readjust himself in his no doubt painful predicament, but it still startles Nikki all the same.

"Jesus," he says quickly, tearing his gaze away to stare at the grimy shower curtains over Tommy's shoulder. "I can't-- I'm not--"

"Yeah, I know," Tommy mumbles. "My bad. M'sorry."

So it was _Tommy_ who started this whole fiasco, then? Nikki scrutinizes his expression, but he just holds the semblance of a kicked puppy and not much else. A very red, very dejected puppy. _Shit_. The erection digging into the crux of his hip wanes some, and despite how bad he feels for ruining Tommy's fun like this, he's relieved. Overwhelmingly so.

Nikki relaxes against the wall and Tommy releases his grip on his waist, allowing him the ability to slide down into a sitting position and stare dazedly at the tiles on the floor. Fingers worm their way into his hair and he dares a quick glance up, taking in Tommy's half-lidded eyes and shiny, parted lips. The position seems compromising, like Nikki's two seconds away from giving him head (with Tommy's obscenely tented pants at perfect eye level, no less), but all the taller musician does is stare; eyes full of longing and affection and Nikki knows it's a complete contrast to his own.

Nikki is afraid, and Tommy is yearning.

"Nik? It doesn't have to mean anything. I wasn't really thinkin' 'n I'm sorry, man. We can forget about this." But they can't, can they? Nikki, no matter how shitfaced, will never be able to forget the fervent way Tommy held onto him; hands exploring everywhere they could; possessive and so, so eager. He won't forget the way Tommy ushered him through it like some kind of coach either, or the way he'd ask if that was just how Nikki liked it, if he wanted it harder, faster, _if it felt good-_

And Tommy, well. He'd never forget the face Nikki made seconds before he orgasmed, would he? An orgasm he induced, _all by himself_. Christ.

"No, no, it's not..." Nikki inhales, the chatter of their guests and the sound of AC/DC's _Hell's Bells_ blaring through their ghetto blaster covering up the silence between them. His pants are sticky and unbearably _gross_ and all he wants to do is kick every last partygoer out of their house so he doesn't have to walk out there and pretend there isn't cum-soaked underwear glued to the inside of his thigh. "It's my fault too. Let's- yeah- let's... we just drank a little too much, you know? It's okay."

"So we're cool then? Everything's straight between us?"

Oh, most certainly_ not_.

Nikki grins at his own little joke and nods, and Tommy's tension deflates visibly at the sight. He smiles back when Nikki says, "Yeah, man", and ruffles his already-disheveled hair fondly.

"Alright," he laughs.

"Alright," Nikki echoes, closing his eyes to gather his bearings. Tommy mentions something about catching a smoke outside, and it's not until he's gone from the bathroom that Nikki groans in despair, throwing his head back and knocking it a little too hard against the wall. Behind his eyelids the event that took place not even ten minutes ago flickers like a poorly-constructed movie, playing over and over; making sure to loop his _favorite_ moments like the warm tongue on his neck or the hips crushing into his like Tommy wanted nothing more than to- to--

_Fuuuck._

He groans again, even more pitiful than the first time.

They weren't going to forget this. There was _no fucking way_ they were going to forget this.


	2. Dr. Feelgood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's prompt was: Wound!
> 
> I could have went a different route with this, but it ended up being fluffy because I'm a weak fool. :( Also; back to first person again!
> 
> Enjoy!

"Ouch!"

"Stop moving."

"Just leave it alone, I don't need- ow, _ow!_ Fuck!"

"_I said stop moving!_"

I wince, turning my head away while Tommy frets over my flesh wound with a worried look on his face. He's meticulous in his practice, carefully flushing out the rocks and dirt with a clean saline rinse, but holy shit if that doesn't burn like a _motherfucker-_

He squeezes the little bottle of water again and I can't help but jerk, tearing my arm out of his fingers for the umpteenth time already. He exhales sharply, glancing up at me, and that worried look has morphed into something more akin to annoyance.

"You want this shit to get infected, man?" I frown, shrugging. His mouth draws into a tight line. "Yeah, well, _too bad._ How the hell are you s'posed to play the bass with no arm?"

"You say that like it'll just fall off-"

"It _will _fall off," he interrupts, refocusing on my wound. His grip is like steel now, holding with a force I didn't know he was capable of. Salt water rains down on the torn skin again and I hiss, but that iron grip keeps my arm in place while the rest of me thrashes. "You know why?" He asks, not giving me enough time to reply before he's diving right into his explanation with all the seriousness a real practitioner might have, "_Infections,_ Nikki. My sister almost lost her foot once because she stepped through a rusty nail back when we used to explore through the woods as kids. She never cleaned it and when our mom found out, she took us straight to the doctor's office to get it looked at. It almost turned _gangrenous." _

Despite the searing pain that's rocketing through my entire left side, I still find the ability to roll my eyes. "Tripping on an amp and falling off of a stage isn't comparable to stepping on a _rusty nail_, Tommy-"

"Rust, dirt, bird shit- it's still gonna infect if you don't take care of it, Nik. So shut the fuck up, yeah? Since your stubborn ass won't let me take you to the hospital and get _actual_ stitches..." He grumbles the last part, leaning closer to inspect his work. It's kind of gross how he can do that so easily, I think, but I sort of envy him for it too. Maybe I would have been able to handle the clean up myself if I was as desensitised as he was to this type of shit.

"All clean!" he chirps, large hand trailing down from my elbow to give my clammy fingers a gentle squeeze. He turns to rummage through the aged metal first-aid kit next to his lap and I watch, mildly horrified, as he pulls out a box of butterfly bandages and a large roll of pink-coloured gauze.

"No way," I say and his grin widens; evil and dirty and mean. It's in these moments I can't help but feel a tiny swell of pride, though, 'cause I know where he learned it from.

"Yes way." He scoots closer. I lean away from him but it doesn't matter; his long fingers are snatching my arm up again and holding it in that same borderline-painful death grip.

"You already cleaned it-!"

"Yes, wow, _very_ observant of you, Sixx. Now we're onto step two; closing it up so that it won't get more dirt and shit stuck inside of it again." I should punch him for his snark, but he's trying to help me, so I hold back for now. I'll punch him later. "This is like, _common knowledge_, dude. C'mon- didn't your parents ever do this for you when you got boo-boos growin' up?"

My face darkens at that, and he backtracks the moment the words are out of his mouth.

"Shit, sorry." He peels the adhesive strip away from the bandage in his hands and gets to work sealing the wound. "Well, I do gotta say _one_ thing. I'm surprised you haven't lost any body parts yet, considering you don't know shit about takin' care of yourself."

I pause, mulling it over. "Dumb luck?"

"Yeah- dumb doesn't even _begin_ to cover it, man."

I smile a little at that, but Tommy doesn't see it because he's back to hunching over my forearm with a concentrated expression glued to his face. It hurts terribly and I can't help but squirm every now and then, pulling an aggravated noise out of him each time I disrupt his applications.

"There," he says after a moment, letting me go again. I glance down to take in his neat little row of makeshift sutures and, sure enough, the cut's being held together by them. Kinda shittily, I have to admit, but it looks way better than it did two minutes ago.

I'm not sure what to do in this position. My mouth twists at the prospect of saying _thank you_, because that wasn't a common occurrence, but it feels like I'm obligated to at this point. Nobody's ever bothered to patch me up before; much less go through the motions and take care that I don't get _infected_, or whatever. Nobody except Tommy, that is.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him reach for something, and it doesn't hit me until he's in my personal space again; spreading something long and gaudy and _pink_.

"Don't you _dare,_ Lee."

"You don't scare me," he says without missing a beat, the words coming to him almost a little _too_ easily. I scowl and he sticks his tongue out at me, grabbing my arm again. The gauze is uncomfortable as it presses into my tender flesh and I grind my teeth against the feeling; waiting for him to stop so that I could finally relax. I'll probably sneak away later and rip it off when he's not looking, and the thought consoles me long enough to let him finish up.

"_Aaand..._" With a final wrap, he's smoothing a hand over the tail end of the gauze to properly stick it in place, "Done!"

I sigh.

"Can't believe you're makin' me wear this teenybopper bullshit."

"Ah- _what_, just 'cause it's pink?" At my deflated expression, Tommy just scoffs. "Seriously? What's that say about Vince then, huh?"

I don't reply, just avert my gaze with raised brows and a tuneless whistle passing through my lips. He laughs and punches my shoulder - the one connected to my _good_ arm - without force, grinning like the big dumb idiot he was. I couldn't help but grin back because, _fuck it_, I was a pretty big dumb idiot, too.

"You're as cold as ice," he says.

"Only to those who deserve it. Which reminds me... erm." I hesitate, swallowing the lump of nerves at the back of my throat. _Why_ I'm nervous I have no idea, but I chalk it up to my inexperience. These things were awkward to formulate into real words, even _more _awkward when I was the one saying them. "Thanks, _Dr. Lee_. You did a good job and, uh. Well. I appreciate it. ... So." I meet his gaze, playfully socking his shoulder in return. "Yeah."

Tommy doesn't smile. He doesn't grin. He fucking _beams_, like I had just hung the moon and all the stars in the sky for him and him alone. It's a dizzying sight and my guts twist and flip-flop at it, stunning me momentarily as he replies,

"Anything for you, Nik."

He leans forward then, hands coming up to cup my freshly-bandaged wound. He brings it to his lips and presses a fleeting kiss to the powder-pink material, moving down to grasp my hand and place one in the center of my palm too; almost like an afterthought.

I'm speechless.

And very much nervous.

"Ready to go?" Still too shocked to speak, I nod quickly instead. He snickers, putting away all the medical supplies, and it's not until we're on our way back to the tour bus that I finally find the courage to ask,

"Just curious, but why'd you bother doing all of that for me anyway, man?"

"Because." He looks at me, and his eyes are round and sincere and my heart flutters in my chest. There's a hint of _something_ swimming in those brown depths, something foreign and scary, but warm and comforting at the same time. "I care about you, Nikki. It's as simple as that."


	3. All In The Name Of...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this piece: Morning After.
> 
> Wrote this in about an hour, sorry for the short length! Was originally going to be it's own fic, but I thought it'd be a better companion piece here.

. . . He wakes up with a pounding headache and hair in his nose, lips pressing against the soft warm skin of Tommy's neck with his arms and legs holding him close; and for the first four or five minutes he's not worried about the erection that's pinned awkwardly between their bodies. He buries his face into the crook of Tommy's shoulder and inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of beer and cigarettes and something faintly reminiscent of minty bubblegum; sleep threatening to sweep him under once more.

He's comfortable... _sooo_ comfortable. He can't recall any other time where he woke up_ this_ content from a one night stand... Or at all, really, considering the hell he puts himself through on a day-to-day basis. Waking up was never a pleasant occurrence anymore, not with the addiction there to chase him out of his dreams; but right now, he couldn't even_ feel_ heroin's calling. He never wanted to get up. He could die here and that'd be just fine with him.

Tommy sighs, fidgeting beneath the blankets, and then the realisation finally starts to sink in.

Nikki was awake, pressed up against Tommy with the worst case of morning wood he's ever had the pleasure of experiencing. He's wrapped around him like a koala bear, and one of Tommy's hands is lax against his thigh, like maybe he had passed out while holding it there and no, no, that is _not_ good, that is _very, very bad-_

Panic worms its way into Nikki's chest like a parasite, sucking his feel-good attitude dry and leaving nothing but raw, unbridled terror in its wake. His eyes widen like saucers and he contemplates tearing himself away from the drummer and running for the hills, but then it dawns on him that he's naked, _butt-ass naked_ and embracing Tommy in a bed -_in Tommy's bed_\- with a raging hard-on that was digging into the small of his back, and _holy fuck-_

As carefully as he can possibly manage, Nikki maneuvers his hips up and away from his friend, his traitorous flesh aching unhappily at the missing friction. Jesus Christ.

He sifts through his memories and tries to find an explanation for the position he currently finds himself in and draws a complete blank. How did this happen? How did he end up here? Why was he naked, and _why the fuck was Tommy naked, too?_

Or maybe he wasn't naked, maybe he had a pair of briefs on underneath the blanket. Nikki's leg shifts just enough to graze his hip and- yeah, okay, _good,_ he actually _does_, much to his surprise. Tommy twitches at the motion and Nikki becomes a living statue, breath catching in his throat, heart racing so fast it might jump straight out of his chest.

He had to leave. This wasn't real. This wasn't happening; _this never happened_.

As delicately as possible, Nikki retracts his arms and legs; moving so slowly and so tediously that it must have taken him at least three minutes just to fully detach himself from Tommy's body. He wiggles to the other end of the mattress and lifts the covers with all the patience of a saint, eyes glued to the back of the drummer's head while he does so.

A quick glance down confirms that he's as bare as the day he was born and he's immediately on the hunt for his clothes, finding his jeans on the floor by the foot of the bed. He shimmies into them as quickly and as quietly as the action allows him to, mind running a mile a minute as he tries his best to _not_ have a breakdown _right there_ in the middle of Tommy's fucking bedroom.

All these months, all these years accumulating feelings would have eventually ended up in a turn of events much like last night sooner or later, he knew. It was only a matter of time, because he was a love-sick fool, and Tommy looked up to him like he was some kind of ancient prophet; preaching the most precious gospel to ever grace his ears. If he said "jump", Tommy would ask "how high?", not even thinking twice about the why's and the why not's... So if he could take a wild guess, he'd reckon it was nobody's fault but his own. Tommy, regardless of the situation, would never say no to Nikki.

And it was _his_ fault.

Nikki's belt buckle clanks and clatters deafeningly in the silence of the room then, and he contemplates his own death as he watches Tommy's eyelids flutter for a moment, rousing from the noise. He squints, probably soaking in the situation at hand, and Nikki's throwing his shirt on at record speed.

"Nik?" He mumbles, and no, no- _fuck_ no, he's not doing this right now.

He rushes to put on his socks and sneakers, and from the corner of his eye he can see Tommy stir a little more, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

"What's going on?" Tommy asks, but Nikki's already walking towards the dresser, snatching up his jacket and sliding it on over his shoulders. He opens the door and Tommy doesn't say anything else, probably as confused as _he_ was when he first woke up, and he turns to look at him one more time; his guts clenching painfully at the expression glued to his friend's face.

"I..." He trails off, eyes darting everywhere as he grasps for words. "I'll see you around, man."

Tommy's mouth opens but Nikki's already slipping out of room before he can reply, closing the door gently behind him.


	4. Toast Of The Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two submissions in one day! I had actually written this a while ago, and felt like it deserved to be in here! :) I'm noticing that there's a pattern going on between chapters, switching from first to third person and back again lmao-
> 
> This prompt for this installment is: First Meeting.
> 
> Enjoy!

I'm not a smart guy.

I never claimed to be. If you asked me right now, at this very moment: "Would you consider yourself intellectually inclined by any standards?" I might just have to punch you in the face. Or laugh. _Or_, preferably, punch you in the face _and_ laugh because that's a stupid question and for some reason I can't get my mind off of the fact that Nigel decked me during a _live fucking performance_.

As if to remind me, my nose stings with the remnants of fist-to-face contact. I sniff, feeling the blood clot sit thick in the back of my nasal cavity, and consider grabbing another napkin to try and force it out. It'd be possible if it didn't hurt so bad, I think. I'll pass on that for now.

The waitress comes to slide me a menu then, her aged face wrinkling even more to flash me one of her _oh-so_ dazzling smiles. 'Donna', the name tag reads. She reminds me of my grandmother, even though they held no semblance to each other. "Lookin' a little rough there, sugar," she says and I roll my shoulders in a shrug, glancing down at the familiar list of dishes.

"Just another ho-hum day in paradise," I drawl, and granny _tsks_ her tongue like I'm a trouble child.

"Stay outta the streets, that's where the rat nests are." She gives me a brief pat on the shoulder before walking away, her brittle fingers lingering far longer than I would have liked. Actually, come to think of it, I didn't like her hand being there at all in the first place. What is it with people and wanting to touch me, lately?

I blink, frowning, and fumble dumbly for the creased newspaper sprawled in front of me. The fuck was I doing again? Reading articles?

I lick a finger and browse the catalogs with distant eyes, not really absorbing any of the shit I skimmed over.

So, back to my previous monologue: No, I am not smart. And maybe if I kept my mouth shut during the gig, I wouldn't have a potentially broken nose, or a blood trail running down the length of my shirt. And maybe if I hadn't been provoking the guys in the band over the past couple of weeks, we could have written a decent number and performed without a problem. I guess, in a way, that means_ I_ have a problem: which, I'll be honest, is a big fuckin' understatement when you really whittle it down. I have several problems. I have _too many_ problems.

Problem one, and probably the biggest one: I have no idea where I'm gonna get my next bite to eat. I've seen Donna here and there and managed to squeeze a free plate of hash browns out of her two weeks ago when I had honest to God considered dumpster diving; and bless the old bat's heart, she just so happened to be on lunch break at the time. Could you consider it a lunch break, if your shift starts at eight p.m.?

And while she's content with slinging me endless glasses of soda and little shooters of Jack free of charge, I'm starting to realize these drunken sugar highs from the lack of food in my gut can only last for so long before I'm buzzing and shaking and just about ready to jump up from my seat and steal someone else's eggs and sausage right off of their plate.

My stomach growls at the thought, and I hold back a groan of despair. A busted nose _and_ I'm starving to death?

Focus, Nikki. Focus. What the hell was the newspaper for again?

Scowling, I leaf through a few more pages, soaking in the useless information until I'm flipping the paper so that I can check out the back. I briefly catch the words 'advertisement' and 'community listings' before it hits me like a two-by-four, and I remember that in my fit of anger I had called it quits with London and picked up an issue of _L.A. Times_ to hunt for my next band on the way to Denny's. That's right.

Fishing for my pen, - the red one, the one from _Home Depot_ that actually still fucking works - I uncap it with my teeth and lean further over the newspaper so that I can sift through the names. Somewhere in the mix I feel a lukewarm wetness slip over my lips and I crumple up a napkin to help staunch the flow, because _of course_ it'd start bleeding again when I'm trying to get shit done.

_Richard Bowly_, nineteen. Rhythm guitarist, still taking lessons. A buzzer goes off in my head and I wrinkle my nose, immediately regretting it as a bolt of pure agony tears through my face. Jesus. I cross his name out in a messy X.

_Sara Thompson_, twenty-three. Singer, has two cats named Peach and Fuzz... Both with underlying health problems, so she can't stay late for rehearsals. _EH!_ goes the buzzer, and I scribble her name out like the first.

I'm about to continue before my brows crease in delayed bewilderment. She's gonna skimp out on future band practice for a couple of _cats_?

Sloppy, Sara. Very sloppy. I click my tongue and shift to the next name.

_Mick Mars_, twenty-

"Hey! That was badass, dude!"

A hand slaps at my elbow and I surprise myself by not jumping for once. My gaze flickers up and- oh, would you look at that. Problem number two.

"The show, not the- nose... But the nose is pretty badass too." Whoever this guy is, he's fumbling like an idiot. He rocks back on his converse-covered feet, a dumb grin painting his angular features. He looks like a kid, though if he actually _was_ a kid he could have fooled me if he said otherwise; the guy's built like a palm tree. Tall. Very, very tall. Skinny, but in a natural sense. I couldn't hold a flame to him with my emaciated ass.

He blinks, bites his lip. It's kind of cute, almost, in a puppy dog sorta way. He practically radiates his adoration, and I have to commend him for his bravery in approaching me in the first place. Not that I'm some kind of hot shot that's hard to talk to, but- fuck. Not everybody can just waltz right up to their idols like that.

"The singer's an asshole," I gripe, because- hey, it's true. I reserved the right to complain.

"I know, I saw! Hey, fuck him though, he deserved it!" He nods like he's affirming his own statement, and _Jesus_, is he always this enthusiastic when he talks?

I hum and shift my attention back to the papers in front of me, signaling the end of our conversation. Small talk was painful, and his demeanor was a little overbearing. Despite this, though, I can still feel his presence at the corner of my mind; his looming figure hovering over me as I sat hunched at the table.

It was silent for a few more seconds. And then,

"I got your poster hanging on my bedroom wall."

Woah.

I glance up at him again, and my expression seems to crumble his resolve. He backtracks, winces, and breaks eye contact with an embarrassed inhale through his teeth. "I can't believe I just said that."

I throw him a bone. "Take the fuckin' poster down, man. London's over." As if by reflex, I turn to look at the newspaper again, fingers clenching around the _Home Depot_ pen.

"Anything I can get you boys?" Donna's back, grinning politely with a pot of coffee held in her hands. I return the smile after a moment, testing the waters.

"Could you get me a Jack and Coke?" I ask as sweetly as I can muster, and it must have worked, because she doesn't say no. Her eyes slide over to the guy who - ah, what the _hell_? - decided to take up residency in the booth across from me, and her tone softens.

"And for you, hon?"

"Blueberry pancakes, please," he says without missing a beat, sending a pang of hunger straight through my stomach. I was going to mooch off of his plate, whether he liked it or not. The thought of eating real, _actual_ food was enough to make me perk back up; and I fix him with a look when his attention shifts back to me.

"My new band is gonna be somethin' nobody's ever fuckin' seen before," I tell him to strike up conversation because he doesn't seem intent on leaving any time soon. He nods, leaning over to scope out the selection of names with me. My eyes land on _Mick Mars_ again, and the promise of something loud, rude, and aggressive catches my interest. Instinctively, I go to circle his little section of the paper before the kid is slapping a drumstick down directly between my hands, landing on a listing that I had already passed over.

"That dude looks pretty cool," he says.

I blink. "Do you carry those with you _everywhere?_"

He meets my gaze, and a smile pulls at his lips. "Yeah," he says as he leans back, and oh- That's a good look on him. He appears almost smug, or at least a little proud; his knees knocking clumsily into mine as he spreads them apart beneath the table. For whatever reason, I don't mind. His hand goes to work, spinning a stick between his long digits as if it came second nature to him and I watch, a little entranced as I ask,

"Where'd you learn to do that?"

His finger acrobatics slow to a halt and his smile falters.

"High school marching band." He scoffs, looking disheartened for all of two seconds. His chipper mood is back in a flash though, and he's leaning towards me again with another gut-twisting grin. "Hey, but I rock too!"

I don't doubt that.

Donna comes back to settle the drinks in front of me, and I thank her as pleasantly as I can. She eats it right up, her eyes as ravenous as my appetite, and when she walks away I'm already tearing the cap off of the whiskey so that I can finally numb the gnawing pit in my guts.

"Woah," the guy comments, and for some unknown reason I hold eye contact the entire time I down the tiny bottle of booze, not bothering to focus on anything else. He seems fascinated by it, smiling slightly, and then his fingers are back to twirling the drumstick around in tight little circles like it was a habit. Probably was, now that I think about it.

I finish off the remaining trickles of alcohol before slamming the plastic back onto the tabletop, and an idea suddenly comes to mind.

"You any good?" I ask, and he tilts his head a bit as he regards me. Okay- fuck, I can admit it. That was pretty cute, too.

"Huh?"

"At drumming." He jerks, sitting up straighter in his seat.

"Oh- Yeah! Fuck yeah, dude! I jam all day, all night. You can stop by my place sometime and check it out if you want?" He's so sure of himself. I smirk at him then, delighting in the way he seems to squirm in his seat.

"Thinkin' about it."

He nods. His fingers pick up speed, twirling the stick so fast he might end up airborne in a few seconds if he's not careful. "Sounds good, Nik, whatever you want," he says, and my whiskey-singed stomach flutters uneasily at that. Since when did he feel comfortable enough using nicknames? I didn't even- I never...

"What's your name?" I ask. He seems just as dumbfounded as me, laughing and slapping a palm into his temple.

"Tommy. I, uh- _shit!_ I thought I said that when I first walked over here. Sorry, dude." He's embarrassed again, flushing an itchy red color across the span of his neck and up into the apples of his cheeks. I swallow dryly and consider offering him a hand to shake.

"Yeah, no problem. I'm Nikki."

Tommy snickers again, reaching over the table to gently swat my arm. "Yeah, I kinda knew that already," he replies, "what with your name being on the poster on my wall, and all."

_That,_ and the fact he'd called me 'Nik' not even a minute ago. It was my turn to heat up then, feeling like I'd been sunburnt across the bridge of my poor, damaged nose. He notices, because his smile is shifting from something innocent to something much less so; something more along the lines of shit-eating.

"Gotcha!" _Fucker._ Like I said; I'm not the brightest.

We spend the next hour talking idly about bands and music and hobbies and broken noses. I end up eating his entire plate of pancakes, but he doesn't seem to mind. He just smiles and and smiles and _smiles_, and that's when I realize things might be taking a nose dive quicker than I had anticipated. I didn't even have a lineup for my new band and I was already feeling it rear its ugly head.

Fuck.

Problem number three.


End file.
